


To Win At The Odds

by thepaininit



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, a little bending of the universe rules, because if horatio isn't a nerd about ancient rome then what's the fucking point, but this is a hamlet/hunger games crossover idk what you were expecting, everyone dies, fluff (for a hot second), hamlet wants to die but what else is new, literally why did i write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepaininit/pseuds/thepaininit
Summary: "So," Hamlet says, the ghost of a smile on his lips for the first time in days, "allies?""Allies," Horatio repeats, and wills his voice not to shake.He doesn't have time to form another thought before Hamlet's kissing him hard, his hands tangled almost painfully in Horatio's hair."God I missed you," Hamlet murmurs against his lips. "You're the only decent person in this place."The Hamlet/Horatio hunger games AU that literally no one asked for.





	To Win At The Odds

**Author's Note:**

> So I was thinking about how the mockingjay-era Capitol would make an interesting setting for a production of Hamlet and somehow I ended up writing...this...which is almost completely unrelated. This crossover makes no sense I'm so sorry.
> 
> If you're here for the Hamlet, basically all you really need to know is the hunger games is a tournament where 24 kids fight to the death. You might not get all the references, but hey, you read Shakespeare in your spare time, you can figure it out.
> 
> If you're here for THG...yeah, I'm not sure. I guess, find out what it would be like if the Mockingjay were actually just a really angry Norwegian prince?

Horatio is eight the first time he remembers seeing Hamlet on TV. He stands amongst marble, amongst shining stones that could only be found in District One. On his right, his father, the victor, the mayor, the man with whom his son shares a name, but little else. On his left, his radiant mother. Her dress sparkles crystal blue, and when the camera zooms in, Horatio sees the color matches all of their eyes.

He looks from the screen to the holes in his shoes and thinks that, perhaps, he should hate this boy, who must be the richest in any of the districts. But Horatio can't bring himself to feel it. Something about Hamlet is too golden to resent.

. 

Horatio is twelve when his father dies, following his mother's passing five years prior. He cries a while, then thinks how little point there is in crying for a past that cannot be retrieved, or for a future that, as of yet, he cannot name. His siblings are all taken to the community home on the other side of the district, and Horatio knows exactly what that means. No schooling, little food, work days in the fields that only end when their legs can no longer hold them. He grieves that he cannot keep them from that fate, but, he decides, that is no reason not to save himself.

With the help of a teacher's recommendation, as well as a bit of begging, he gets a job at the rarely-used district library. He is allowed to lodge on the school grounds so long as his grades stay up and he doesn't cause trouble. Between the meager earnings and the tesserae he takes, he can feed himself well enough.

Of course, in doing so, he puts the odds a little less in his favor. But Horatio has made the calculations and knows it doesn't matter much.

. 

Horatio is sixteen when Hamlet's father dies, and he watches from the library television as the victor's son, clad in all black, struggles to hold back tears as he is interviewed about the event. It's strange, Horatio thinks, that he and the luckiest boy in Panem have something in common.

. 

Horatio is still sixteen two months later on reaping day, and his name is in the reaping bowl ten times. Fantastic odds, really, when set against the thousands of names which do not belong to him, so he tries to stay removed. He feels a touch of sadness when a young girl named Octavia takes the stage. He feels only numbness when he is called to join her.

The District Eleven crowd doesn't applaud much. They whisper and move instead, restless, impatient. The unease has been growing for as long as Horatio can remember, but now, he thinks, it may be reaching a new degree. Not that he'll be around to see what comes of it.

. 

Visitors are allowed after the reaping, but Horatio only has a few. Teachers and acquaintances who, on an occasion such as this, prefer to call themselves friends. But after, he is alone in a terrifying silence. He forces himself to face it.

This is how he's going to die. He repeats the words, drills them through his head, until they seem true, even mild. He will be killed in the games. He will not kill anyone else, except perhaps to defend an innocent, but never to defend himself. At least, he thinks, they didn't pick someone with much to lose.

. 

He watches the other reapings on the train to the Capitol, not expecting to be surprised. He's watched every year, as is compulsory. Things are usually the same. The very first district disproves him.

Hamlet's name is called, and, unusually for District One, no volunteer replaces him. Of course, Horatio does not have to wonder why for long. But Hamlet looks nothing like his father on that stage. He's too slight, too pale, and there's something too calculated about the confident look in his eyes. Still golden though, Horatio notes. It's hard to imagine his light going out.

. 

The other reapings pass with less interest. In District Two, the tributes must be brother and sister, as they share a last name that Horatio doesn't quite catch. The boy, who volunteers, looks like a typically viscous Career tribute. The girl, who is reaped, looks like anything but.

The two from District Four are not siblings, but they look oddly alike all the same. Sandy hair, freckles, and identical stupid, mischievous grins.

In district twelve, the boy has fire in his eyes. He looks directly into the camera as he says his name - Fortinbras. There's something different about him, Horatio knows, something he hasn't seen before. He doubts if Panem has either.

. 

"It's beautiful," Octavia whispers, as the train races through the streets of the Capitol.

Horatio stares out the window at the candy-colored city and feels an unexplained chill down his spine. Maybe it's the way the graffiti isn't quite covered by the hasty paint jobs, or the sickly-sweet smell of roses that seeps into the car. There's something rotten about it all.

. 

Three people - women, he thinks, though the brightly-colored facial hair throws him off at first - prod and pluck at Horatio, making him as ready for the Capitol as a District Eleven boy can be. They chatter as if he can't hear.

"This one's alright, but I wish we'd got Hamlet."

"You know, they're saying he didn't want to be here."

"I heard the mayor rigged the reaping."

"The mayor's dead."

"The new one. The brother. They're saying he wanted the boy out of the way."

"I heard he killed Hamlet himself. But you didn't hear it from me."

"Something wicked," one of the women laughs, and for once, Horatio is inclined to agree.

. 

Horatio catches a glimpse of Hamlet in the District One chariot before he steps into his own. There's a golden crown settled in his dark curls. A victor already. Horatio's heart skips a beat, though he can't say why.

The chariot ride isn't over quickly enough. The Capitol people don't clap much for District Eleven, but Horatio can still feel their eyes.

"Did you see the president?" Octavia asks, as they move toward the elevators. "He looked so solemn this year. So grave. Like something's wrong."

Horatio is struck full-force, again, by the fact of his imminent death. He wants to burst into tears, but for some absurd reason, he chuckles instead.

"I wouldn't call him grave. I think he'll be having the last laugh on that front."

Octavia doesn't seem to get the joke, but Horatio hears a too-loud laugh behind him. He turns to see Hamlet, his crown now askew on his head, crooked as his grin.

. 

He can't sleep that night, so he takes the elevator to the roof and looks out at the city below. It's all cloaked in neon and pastel, all shallow splendor and celebration. The shouts from the streets reach his ears even thirteen stories up. There's something dark beneath it, he's sure, waiting to erupt, if only someone makes the first crack.

. 

The first day of training, Horatio quizzes himself once, twice, on the edible plants he already knows by heart. Then he quizzes himself a third time just to be sure. Better safe than sorry. Better this than have to touch a blade.

"You know, I've been waiting for you to leave this station for almost an hour."

Horatio jumps and turns to see Hamlet's pale face just inches from his. The District One boy laughs.

"I'm getting rather bored."

"And-" The word catches in Horatio's throat. "What exactly are you waiting for?"

"Just a talk. I was curious. You've got a decent sense of humor about this whole games thing." He smirks. "I can respect that. A little death never hurt anyone."

Either it's a threat or an innuendo. Before Horatio can figure out which, the other boy has extended his hand.

"Hamlet."

"I know who you are."

"Then you'll just have to forgive my ignorance."

There's a pause of a few seconds before he supplies, "Horatio," if only to prevent a more painful murder than expected.

"Horatio," Hamlet repeats. "Well, you seem to have thoroughly mastered your edible plants. Always a useful skill."

Hamlet's eyes dance as he speaks. There's wit in his look, mockery, an odd tenderness, and an unstable air that makes Horatio's heart pound.

"I don't suppose you'd like to join us for a while?" He's nearly innocent now. "I'd hate to die with an unsatisfied appetite."

God, Horatio thinks, if they were literally anywhere else...

A few yards away, the boy from District Two, Laertes, decapitates a dummy with a sword. The pair from Four skewer two more, throwing their spears in perfect unison. Horatio's throat goes dry.

"No thank you."

. 

A few hours later, he tries to tell himself it's the passed-up alliance that fills him with regret, not the glimpses of Hamlet's darkly amused smile he keeps catching from across the room. In terms of survival, and nothing else, perhaps Hamlet had a point.

When Fortinbras sends his fourth or fifth arrow into the bullseye of his target, Horatio makes his way over, careful to stay well out of the line of fire.

"I'm Horatio, District Eleven," he introduces himself. "Are you at all interested in having allies?"

"I work alone." Fortinbras fixes him in a cold grey glare and shoots without looking. Another perfect hit. "Unless you'd like to burn this whole place down."

Horatio politely declines.

. 

He reads the next day at lunch, which gives him an excuse not to look at anyone at all. It's an old book about an older place, one of the ones Horatio managed to save from confiscation at the library. Rome feels more real than normal today. There's something unnerving about feeling Fortinbras' gaze on the back of his neck as he reads about an empire falling.

"Hello again."

Hamlet. Of course. Horatio refuses to glance up.

"I told you, no alliance."

"Presumptuous. I only wanted to know what you were reading."

Horatio shuts the book instinctively.

"It's just history."

"Somehow I think you're not quite that boring." Hamlet leans over to get a better look at the cover, and his breath warms Horatio's cheek. "Rome. Where's that?"

"An ocean or two away from here. And a very long time ago."

"That's got to be illegal," Hamlet says, with nothing short of delight.

"Very, I'd imagine. But it's a little late to execute me now."

"Shame. I was hoping you could condemn the both of us." His hand brushes Horatio's leg beneath the table. "If you can't give me my death, will you at least do me the courtesy of a history lesson?"

Horatio opens his mouth, meaning to give a curt reply that will send Hamlet away for good. Their conversation really only feels like a few seconds, but when he next looks at the clock, he finds nearly an hour has gone by.

. 

The Career tributes are terrifying. Horatio tells himself this again and again, then spends the last few minutes of the day watching them, just to make it undeniable.

Rosaline, the girl from One, is attacking a dummy with a mace. Laertes has a sword in hand again and is sparring with an instructor, and winning. Ophelia, his sister, is weaving a trap that could have any tribute in the room dangling a yard above the ground in seconds. The District Four tributes - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, though Horatio can't yet tell which is which - are mirroring each other perfectly in hand to hand combat.

And Hamlet...is right behind him. Again.

"Come down to my room after dinner," he murmurs, lips nearly brushing Horatio's ear.

"I-"

"With your book," he amends, though his eyes are still twinkling. "I want to hear more about Rome."

. 

Horatio can't say how long he's been reading, sprawled out on Hamlet's bed. He only knows that he doesn't want to stop. But Hamlet rises to his feet abruptly, destroying any chance of that wish coming true.

"What's the last thing you want to do before you die?"

Horatio has no answer, but he folds the corner of the page he's on anyway and sets the book aside. The golden crown from the chariot ride is lying on the bedside table. Without thinking, he picks it up and stands too, and relishes in the shaky exhale he elicits when he places it on Hamlet's head.

"My stylist thinks me some kind of royalty," he says, his voice nearly too low to hear.

"Mmm," Horatio hums, and steps closer. "Is that so, my lord?"

"You-" Hamlet starts, and then cuts himself off by crashing into Horatio's lips.

It's only when their clothes are already halfway off that Horatio knows the answer to the first question. _This. Nothing but this._

. 

The boy from District One is always the first to leave for his private training session. Horatio knows this, but that doesn't make him less painfully aware that everyone else in the room is distinctly Not-Hamlet. Laertes shoots him a glare as they wait, and Horatio wonders if he's sealed himself to even more pain than he previously had coming. If so, he decides, it's still almost certainly worth it.

He miscategorizes a plant for the first time in his private session, when deadly blue flowers bring to mind only certain blue eyes.

. 

They sneak away to watch the training scores together. Horatio pays for his mistake and receives a four, and is probably lucky for even that. Hamlet gets an eight, but doesn't crack a smile.

"You don't have a weapon, do you?" he asks, and though he's more subdued than Horatio has seen thus far, there's something stormy in him.

"I don't."

"How will you kill people then?"

"I won't."

"But in self-defense-"

"I still doubt I could bring myself to do it," Horatio says simply. "But you will."

It's not a question.

"Twenty-three of us are bound to die at some point," Hamlet says darkly. "Does it really matter who kills them?"

"I suppose not," Horatio concedes. "I'm just not meant for it."

Hamlet presses a few brief kisses to Horatio's jawline, clutching a handful of his shirt all the while as if that can prevent him ever having to let go.

"God, Horatio," he murmurs into the crook of his neck. "Won't you come with me?"

"I don't think your allies would appreciate that much."

"Oh, they do what I say."

"Still, as I said," Horatio insists, though it sends a deep pang through his chest, "I'm not meant for it."

"God, I know. That's why I want you there." He sighs like he hasn't slept in days. Going by the dark circles, maybe he hasn't. "I just want you."

"Well-"

"No," Hamlet says quickly. "I can't leave the alliance. No one does. My father didn't." He laughs humorlessly. "And being his son is really the only thing I have going for me."

Horatio finds Hamlet's hand and squeezes it tight. He begs to differ.

. 

Hamlet wears gold again in his interview, with streaks of black makeup ringing his pale eyes. It's a good thing Horatio is supposed to watch, because he can't take his eyes off him. He's charming, witty, a little manic at times, but undeniably incandescent. The crowd goes wild at the first mention of his name, but they love him even more by the end.

For Horatio, it doesn't come so easily. He's too quiet in many moments, too brash in a few, and half of what he says goes straight over the audience's head.

"How are you finding the Capitol, Horatio?" he is asked, and he feels his lips quirk up in an ironic smile.

"Being here is certainly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Only a few in the crowd titter, but when he looks back at Hamlet, he finds him grinning widely, and that's all that matters.

. 

Fortinbras, in a suit of literal flames, sets the crowd ablaze. He's powerful, stoic, and each response, Horatio feels, is walking the line of treason. The Capitol citizens shift uncomfortably in their seats at first, but by the end they're on their feet, shouting in some furious variant of applause. Hamlet doesn't seem to notice.

. 

Hamlet trails warm kisses all over Horatio's chest that night, long after he should've left.

"What are you going to say if someone finds you here?" Horatio asks, and Hamlet groans and rolls over at the reminder of reality.

"One...eleven..." he muses. "I could say I thought I was seeing double."

"You're a bit too sober for that, I think."

"Well, maybe I just metabolize very quickly." He chuckles, but it's hollow. "God, I wish I were drunk."

"I don't think a hangover would be much of an advantage in the arena, my lord."

"You like calling me that too much, Horatio," he teases. "I didn't even wear a crown tonight."

He kisses Horatio again, briefly, then shuts his eyes.

"No, but you're right. Drinking wouldn't help," he mutters. "God, I wish I were dead."

There's no hint of his usual sarcasm. Horatio's heart seizes, and his instinct is to remind Hamlet of all the reasons he has to be alive. But there's a very good chance that, soon, he won't be alive, and to wish for Hamlet's survival is to wish for 23 other deaths, including his own.

"Well," he says instead, "I suppose you could be going somewhere worse tomorrow then."

Hamlet laughs an agonized, exhausted laugh.

"You think it's that easy? If it were I'd slit my throat the minute the countdown ended. But they don't let you do that." His nails dig painfully into Horatio's arm. "They'd have my mother killed before the cannon could even go off."

Horatio can't speak. He strokes the hair off Hamlet's forehead instead.

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother with her," Hamlet goes on. "You know she married my uncle? My father died, and a month later she married him. And of course, she doesn't seem to think it's strange that the odds have been just perfectly in my favor for years, and yet the moment my uncle becomes mayor..."

"You...you think your uncle tried to have you killed?"

"I think he probably killed my father too, but it's not like I can prove it." Hamlet's voice breaks and he buries his face in Horatio's shoulder. "I'd kill him myself. I would. I don't care what happens to me. But they'd kill her for that too. And if I win she'll probably still end up dying."

"I don't understand."

"It's not like they tell your districts. Victors aren't free. They own you more than ever. You step out of line once and everyone you love is dead."

Everyone Horatio loves, he thinks, is dead already, or as good as it. But it's not as if he's ever going to win.

"So really," Hamlet mutters, and his voice trembles, "I'll be lucky if I manage to die as soon as possible."

There's nothing to say, so Horatio just holds him as tight as he can.

. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, Hamlet finally gets up to leave. Horatio follows him to the door, clinging to every precious second.

"I can't stand the thought that I might never see you again," Hamlet whispers against his cheek.

"It's probably better if you don't," Horatio replies, though he can't stand it either.

. 

Horatio makes eye contact with him one more time as they stand on their platforms, as the countdown slowly ticks off the last few safe seconds of his life. It's a barren arena, with high hills ringing the edges. In the center is a plane scattered with boulders, surrounded by sparse woods where the trees are all dusted with the lightly falling snow. A few flakes glisten in Hamlet's dark hair.

The gong sounds, and Horatio turns and sprints away from the cornucopia without looking back. 

. 

There are eight faces in the sky the first night. Horatio watches them appear, his hood pulled down over his face and his hands shoved as deep in his pockets as they'll go. Starting a fire will get him killed, but it's cold enough that that sounds almost tempting.

Octavia is dead. Rosaline too. Hamlet is not. Horatio should not feel nearly so relieved.

. 

He stays away three full days. It's the logical thing to do. The roots and berries in the woods provide plenty of food. The cold is awful, but not dangerous if he finds the right places to take shelter. There's no reason to be anywhere else.

He knows where the Careers are, of course. That's only good strategy. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to stay far away.

Hamlet made his choice. Hamlet doesn't fear death, so it's pointless to fear it for him. Hamlet has much better things to concern himself with than a boy from District Eleven who was doomed from the start. The distance between them is only unbearable in the dead of night, when the wind chills Horatio straight through to the heart.

. 

On the fourth day, he wakes up to find all the roots and berries he's been gathering are gone. He knows what that means. He's being too boring. The gamemakers want some action out of him. He zips his coat up to his chin and sets a course straight for the career camp. Who is he to resist?

. 

Hamlet looks all wrong, Horatio notes, as he squints at the careers from behind a particularly dense patch of trees. He's even paler than usual, and even from yards away, Horatio can see the scowl creasing his features.

"We need a plan," he huffs. He's pacing agitated circles around the others, who all look slightly uneasy.

"I told you. South into the woods," Laertes says nonchalantly. "We kill who we can, and then we come back quickly so we can get anyone looting the rest of the cornucopia."

"Good plan," Rosencrantz and Guildenstern pipe up, in near unison.

Hamlet runs a hand through his hair, pacing faster.

"What about the hills? We're letting anyone hide in the hills."

"I told you," Laertes replies, still calm. "There are cliffs up there. Ophelia can't climb. And it's too far to go in one day unless we move our camp."

Ophelia steps forward, blonde hair glistening in the sun, cocking her head in concern.

"Hamlet-"

"Then maybe you just shouldn't be here," Hamlet snaps, and storms off before Laertes' hand can do more than twitch in the direction of his sword.

He sinks to the ground behind a boulder a few yards away, where the others can't see him, and puts his head in his hands. It's agonizing to just watch him, but Horatio can't tear himself away.

. 

When Horatio returns to the spot a few hours later, there's a severe gnawing in his stomach. He finds the others asleep and Hamlet on guard, drawing aimless patterns in the dirt with the tip of his sword.

Horatio has planned. He makes for the pile where they store their food on light feet, hidden by boulders and the cover of darkness. He takes a bag of beef jerky and a loaf of bread. He does his best to be silent as he makes for the woods again, but when the hand clamps down on his wrist, he feels a surge of something near joy.

"What are you doing here?" Hamlet hisses.

Everything about him is drained. Horatio winces at the sheen of sweat covering his forehead, the dullness of his eyes. There's a blood-soaked bandage on his left hand that looks like it hasn't been changed in days.

Somehow, Horatio smirks.

"Got hungry."

There's no humor in Hamlet's look. He clutches tighter.

"Stay away from here, Horatio. They'll kill you."

"It's a calculated risk."

"No," Hamlet mutters. "Just don't."

Before he can stop himself, Horatio brings his free hand up to caress Hamlet's face. Hamlet flinches, then leans into the touch, his eyes shut. His skin is too warm.

"Are you alright?" Horatio asks.

Hamlet shakes his head jerkily and draws away.

"Stay away from here," he says again. "I don't want to watch you die."

Horatio obeys him for two days. He freezes when he hears a cannon sound, and doesn't truly relax until that night, when he doesn't see Hamlet's face in the sky. Half the tributes are gone. Horatio wonders how he isn't yet.

. 

When Horatio tracks Hamlet again, he wishes he hadn't.

The other careers are gone, or at least concealed. But Hamlet isn't alone. There's a boy pinned to the ground in front of him, and Hamlet has a dagger in his hand, carving cruel patterns into his flesh. Hamlet's knuckles are white. Blood flows in rivers over the ground.

Horatio can nearly hate him. He's almost relieved. This isn't the Hamlet he thought he knew. This is a Hamlet he can be glad never to see again.

But he creeps closer anyway, for one last look, and that's when Hamlet's voice reaches his ears.

"Everyone dies," Hamlet is muttering to himself. He grits his teeth as he makes another cut, the unconscious boy's head lolling to the side. "It doesn't matter how. Everyone dies."

His cheeks are far too flushed, blue eyes no longer dulled but fever-bright, and shining with unshed tears. He's the picture of manic misery. Horatio couldn't hate him if he tried.

He watches for a few more awful minutes, a million more slices made in the body of the boy, who is now nearly unrecognizable. Hamlet only stops when a silver parachute floats down in front of him. He removes the small vial attached to it with shaking fingers, relief written all over his face. A cannon fires.

Horatio silently forgives him and turns to go. He gets a safe distance away, but not before he hears Ophelia scream.

. 

He stays away that night, but he doesn't sleep. The mockingjays in the woods sing back and forth, all echoing a high-pitched, breaking melody that sounds insane. Horatio wants to run far enough that he can't hear it, but if the song is close, it means Hamlet is too.

. 

Horatio returns to the career camp the next morning, and not a moment too late.

"Just kill him," Laertes is saying, in a voice he probably thinks is low, but carries all the same. "But not here. Take him into the woods and do it there."

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern exchange a look.

"Why can't you kill him?" Rosencrantz asks, frowning.

Guildenstern nods. "And why not here?"

"Because I'm staying with Ophelia," Laertes says impatiently, glancing at one of the nearby tents. "I can't leave her alone. I should be in there now. And not here because I do not fucking want her to see."

Horatio's breath catches in his throat, and he has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from making a sound. He scans the camp for Hamlet and finds him curled up on a sleeping bag a fair distance away from the others, dead to the world.

"You saw what he did to her," Laertes says, stepping forward, towering over Rosencrantz and Guildenstern easily. "She wasn't supposed to see anything like that, and now she-" His voice breaks for a fraction of a second before he squares his shoulders. "He has to die."

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern speak in unison. "We'll do it."

. 

Horatio waits, and the seconds drag by, each one more unbearable than the last. Finally, Laertes returns to the tent. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern head off to the cornucopia together, talking in hushed voices, probably determining the last details of their plan. Their backs are to the camp.

When he's sure the coast is clear, Horatio picks up a small rock and tosses it at Hamlet. It hits the ground near his face, but he wakes anyway, instantly drawing his sword before he realizes there's no one to fight.

Horatio takes a deep breath and steps out of the trees.

He's only exposed for a few seconds. He doesn't have to wait for Hamlet to run to him.

"What are you doing?" Hamlet whispers. "I told you to stay away."

"Hamlet, listen to me. They're trying to kill you."

"What?" Hamlet's eyes widen for a moment before he sets his face again, resigned. "Fine."

Something like panic is swelling in Horatio's chest.

"Don't say that," he chokes out, though it feels like he should be shouting. "Please just get away from them."

Hamlet's face hardens. He clutches his sword tighter.

"What are they going to do?"

"Laertes told Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to take you into the woods and kill you there. I think they're planning how to do it now."

"If I can get away," Hamlet says, after a pause, "will you wait for me?"

"Of course."

"Then get out of here for an hour or so. I'll meet you here."

Horatio doesn't fully trust the odd glint in Hamlet's eyes. Still, there's nothing else to do. He squeezes Hamlet's hand and feels a pang when he lets go.

"See you then."

. 

Hamlet comes back an hour later, true to his word, a backpack slung over his shoulders. There's no sign he's been fighting, but he looks like he's aged ten years. Horatio doesn't ask what happened.

"So," Hamlet says, the ghost of a smile on his lips for the first time in days, "allies?"

"Allies," Horatio repeats, and wills his voice not to shake.

He doesn't have time to form another thought before Hamlet's kissing him hard, his hands tangled almost painfully in Horatio's hair.

"God I missed you," Hamlet murmurs against his lips. "You're the only decent person in this place."

Horatio blushes against his will.

"Hamlet-"

"It's true," Hamlet says, pulling away a few inches. His gaze sweeps over every detail of Horatio's face. "You're the only decent person I've ever met."

The fire in his eyes is colder than it used to be, and Horatio almost shivers. He kisses Hamlet again instead.

. 

A few hours later, two cannons fire in quick succession. Horatio jumps. Hamlet doesn't.

"Who do you think that was?" Horatio asks, as he silently runs through the tributes who are still alive. Nine. Or seven, now.

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Hamlet replies, unreadable. "Must be."

Horatio forces himself to breathe evenly.

"What did you do to them?"

"I pretended not to know what was going on. Told them we should break off from the alliance. They do whatever anyone tells them to." He laughs coldly. "I told them to meet me in this clearing in the north woods. Laertes, Ophelia, and I found it the first day. Snakes everywhere. Laertes would've died if Ophelia hadn't known a plant to draw the venom out. But those idiots would never even think of that."

Hamlet looks up at the sky, oddly tranquil.

"I'm surprised they made it this long."

Maybe, Horatio thinks, he should be horrified, but he isn't. It's then that he realizes, better or for worse, he's never going to leave.

. 

Hamlet doesn't talk that night when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's faces light up the starry sky. Instead, he laces his fingers with Horatio's and grips until it hurts.

"Hamlet?"

"What?"

Horatio kisses Hamlet's forehead before he speaks to let him know he isn't angry now, and won't be later, though perhaps he should.

"Why did you torture that boy?"

Hamlet goes rigid. His fingers grip even tighter, making Horatio wince.

"He didn't feel it," he says, a little unsteadily. "He was unconscious the whole time."

Horatio decides to believe him, though it's unclear if Hamlet fully believes himself.

"Okay," he says evenly. "But why?"

"I was sick. There was a cut on my hand that got infected. And I knew no one in the Capitol would send money for the medicine unless I...you know."

He looks at Horatio, agitated, and Horatio holds his gaze.

"Everyone dies, right? Does it matter?"

"Everyone dies," Horatio agrees. He fingers the bandage on Hamlet's hand. "You're alright now, aren't you?"

"I guess."

Hamlet leans against Horatio's chest for a long moment. The firelight dances off his pale skin.

"Ophelia saw," he says eventually, not raising his head. "She wasn't supposed to. Laertes said she wasn't trained or anything. She's not used to this. And she kind of lost it."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. She just freaked out. Wasn't making any sense. Kept singing and talking about flowers."

He laughs emptily.

"But who isn't losing it a little in here, right?"

As usual, Horatio can't think of anything to say, but he makes sure Hamlet is the first to get to sleep.

. 

The next night, it's Ophelia's face in the sky. Hamlet trembles and lets Horatio hold him, muttering something about it being cold.

"Do you think there was a fight?" Horatio asks. "Who's left who would come after them? Fortinbras, maybe?"

The thought of the district twelve boy sends an unexpected chill down Horatio's spine. He hasn't seen him since the gong went off, but he is alive, and surely playing to win.

"No," Hamlet says, with startling certainty. "She did it herself."

"What? How do you-"

"She did," he insists. "I just know."

The sound of wind fills up the deafening silence. Horatio strokes Hamlet's hair for a long time, and murmurs under his breath that it isn't Hamlet's fault, though he isn't sure.

"Laertes is going to come for me," Hamlet says softly, when he's almost stopped shaking. "You shouldn't be here when he does."

"I'm going to be here," Horatio says simply.

Hamlet doesn't argue.

. 

Hamlet wakes in a cold sweat, and one look at his face tells Horatio he doesn't want to ask what he was dreaming.

"What happened to your book?" Hamlet asks. He's clutching at the front of Horatio's shirt.

"I left it in the Capitol," Horatio replies, speaking barely above a whisper. "They would've destroyed it if I tried to bring it here."

"Oh." Hamlet's face falls a little. He looks impossibly small cradled in Horatio's arms. 

"Will you tell me more about Rome?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Horatio chuckles softly, and thinks how much he'd love to take Hamlet back to his room in District Eleven, where they could lie on his small, creaky bed and read each other passages of the confiscated books hidden in every cupboard. It's a thought that hurts more than it should.

"I wish we could go there," Hamlet says.

Horatio nods, pulling himself back to the present.

"That would be nice."

"I wish we could go anywhere."

"Yeah," Horatio agrees. His eyes sting. "Me too."

. 

The sound of a nearby scuffle interrupts Horatio's (rather useless) attempt to teach Hamlet to differentiate between the berries he can eat and those that will instantly kill him.

"Laertes?" Hamlet mutters, and for a moment, the whole world crashes down.

But it's not Laertes, Horatio realizes, before they even reach the source of the noise. The footsteps are far too light.

They peek through the trees just in time to see Fortinbras remove an arrow from a girl's throat. He kneels at her side, closes her eyes. Then he presses the three middle fingers of his left hand to his lips and holds them up, in full view of every camera to be found.

"What does that mean?" Hamlet whispers.

"Kind of a salute," Horatio explains. "It's a thank you, or a goodbye, or..."

He trails off as the cannon fires and Fortinbras hurries off, thankfully, in the opposite direction. When Horatio turns back to Hamlet, he looks somewhere between awed and mildly horrified.

"What does he think he's doing?" he breathes, though Fortinbras is surely well out of earshot.

Horatio thinks of the district twelve boy's words from the training center and decides against repeating them.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "Something new."

. 

"I love you," Horatio whispers, long after Hamlet has gone to sleep, and wonders when exactly that became true. When he thinks of any time before Hamlet, it doesn't quite feel real.

Hamlet stirs a little in his sleep but doesn't wake, and Horatio rubs slow circles on his back.

It's a good thing he's going to die, he decides, so he never has to live without this.

. 

Laertes finds them the next afternoon. Horatio suggests running when they hear him, or hiding, if only just to buy a little time. Hamlet won't hear it. He stands in plain sight, his sword in his hand, stance open. Horatio holds a spare knife and hopes Laertes doesn't realize he has absolutely no idea how to use it.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Hamlet says when Laertes bursts through the trees, and for a second, he nearly seems to hesitate.

Then he spits at Hamlet's feet. "You're not."

His sword is drawn too. The two slowly circle each other as Horatio watches, neither one making a move.

"I didn't mean for her to see that," Hamlet says, and the guilt on his face, Horatio is sure, is very real. "I didn't think-"

"She's dead," Laertes interrupts.

"I know."

"Did you know she drowned herself?" Laertes' voice breaks, his expression contorting in more pain than Horatio has ever seen. "The second I went to sleep. I stayed up three days straight, till I couldn't keep my eyes open, and next thing I know I'm waking up to a cannon."

Hamlet takes a step back. He looks sick.

"Which wouldn't have been a problem if I'd had allies to watch for me," Laertes adds, colder now, smoothing over his grief with pure rage. "I wonder what happened to them."

Hamlet's eyes flash as he takes the bait.

"As I recall, you tried to have them kill me."

Laertes swings his sword in an arc toward Hamlet's chest, and all the air leaves Horatio's lungs before Hamlet easily stops the blade with his own. He takes another step back, raising his free hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"I don't want to kill you, Laertes."

Laertes scoffs. "We are in a fight to the death."

"I know. I just...I never wanted to hurt Ophelia," Hamlet says, his voice wavering slightly. "And we were allies. I don't want to hurt you either. So..."

He takes two knives out of his belt, drops them on the ground, and kicks them far out of his reach.

"Say we fight fair?"

Laertes doesn't move.

"Your boyfriend too," he hisses, and Horatio drops his knife instantly, almost eager for the excuse.

Laertes pauses and removes a single knife from his back pocket.

"Fine." He nods, though his every motion is still burning with fury. "Fair."

Horatio wants to protest, but Hamlet silences him with a look. Either he believes Laertes, or he doesn't and he doesn't care.

. 

It's all over too quickly. Horatio watches the fight frozen, unable to do anything but will Hamlet to come out of it alive.

For a few minutes, the two go back and forth, swords flashing. Hamlet lands two superficial hits - grazes, really - but they do nothing but further incense Laertes, who just advances with renewed energy.

He strikes again. Hamlet does too, and their blades lock together. For a moment, Hamlet is utterly focused, straining for leverage, all his attention fixated on his opponent's sword, not on his opponent himself. That's when Laertes slips the dagger from his coat and plunges it into Hamlet's stomach.

Hamlet stumbles back, shock and betrayal written all over his face. Horatio has forgotten how to breathe. It seems as if Hamlet has too, until, with an agonized groan, he pulls the dagger from his flesh and buries it in Laertes' chest.

"It wasn't you," Laertes chokes out as he lies sprawled on the ground, his words muffled by the blood pooling in his mouth. He points a shaking finger toward the sky. "They killed her. It was them."

. 

Hamlet is lying in Horatio's lap. His eyes stare nowhere but Horatio's face. His hand caresses Horatio's cheek, and by now, must surely be glazed with his tears. But he has never felt so far away.

Hamlet's blood is covering Horatio too, spilling warm and fast from the wound in his abdomen, coating Horatio's hands as he tries fruitlessly to stop the flow. Hamlet winces at the pressure and pries the hands away.

"I'm dead, Horatio," he murmurs, near bemused. A pained smile curls the corners of his lips.

Horatio shakes his head, closes his eyes, mutters something like "no, no, no."

Hamlet laughs weakly, a trickle of blood running down his chin.

"You're alive," he says, which must be a lie, because the world has run out of air to breathe, and the ache in Horatio's chest is so strong he's sure he has a wound there too.

"S'okay," Hamlet whispers, his speech a little slurred. His body is slackening. Horatio's grip, rigid as it is, cannot compensate. "You'll do just fine without me."

"No," Horatio replies. He can barely get the word out.

He sees Laertes' dagger lying on the ground a foot away from him, crusted all over with drying blood, and his choice is made. He picks it up and points it at his chest.

"I won't."

Hamlet's eyes are suddenly urgent, terrified. He scrabbles at Horatio's hand, trying, with the last of his failing strength, to get the dagger free.

"You can't," he gasps. "I told you. They'll kill-"

"No one," Horatio interrupts. His hand shakes a little. The thought of taking a life is still daunting, even if it's his own. "They can't. There's no one left for me."

He brings the dagger closer, nearly piercing his skin. Maybe, if he's lucky, if he's cruel, he can die first, and he'll never have to see the last light leave Hamlet's eyes.

"Then win," Hamlet says. "They won't own you."

He winces, curling in on himself, a small cry of pain escaping his lips. Horatio hushes him and strokes his hair with a voice and a hand that are not his own.

"Win," Hamlet repeats, more firmly this time. "Someone has to. You're the only one who deserves it."

It's the pleading look in Hamlet's blue eyes that makes Horatio let the dagger go, if only so he can hold Hamlet tighter.

"Okay," he agrees, hating it, hating everything but the unmistakable relief that crosses Hamlet's face.

"Promise," Hamlet insists, still not quite satisfied.

For once in his life, he looks utterly innocent. Something deep inside of Horatio breaks.

"I'll try," he says, and means it. "I promise I'll try."

There's nothing for Horatio to do after that but listen to Hamlet's breaths get fainter and fainter, and try to hold back at least some of his sobs.

"The rest is silence," Hamlet murmurs as his eyes finally close, but Horatio has never heard a cannon sound so loud.

. 

Horatio walks, Hamlet's backpack heavy on his shoulders. He can feel the stiffness of the dried blood on his coat with every step. The sun is nearly down, and he doesn't know where he is going. He keeps walking anyway. He has a promise to keep.

. 

When Horatio sleeps, he doesn't bother to conceal himself. There is no one to guard him, nothing to prevent him from being killed at any moment. He can't bring himself to care.

When he does wake up, it's not to a knife or a sword or an arrow, but to the images of ancient coliseums still flashing through his head. If he were in Rome, he thinks, no one would mind if he slit his throat right then and there.

. 

There are three left, Horatio realizes as he walks in aimless circles, traveling a loop he must have completed at least four or five times before. A few hours later, a cannon sounds, and it's two.

He's close. He isn't glad, but Hamlet would be. It's enough to keep him standing.

. 

When Fortinbras finds him, Horatio knows there's no chance of a fight. There's an arrow pointed straight toward his head, and he knows for a fact he won't be quick enough to duck.

I'm sorry, Horatio thinks, as he raises both hands above his head and lets his knife drop to the ground.

Fortinbras regards him silently, and Horatio thinks there might be a sort of apology in his look too. He lets Horatio move forward, first a step, then a few, until Horatio's mouth is only inches from his ear.

"Did you mean what you said?" Horatio asks. "Are you going to burn it all down?"

Fortinbras nods, his jaw set.

"Or die trying."

Horatio steps away and feels the understanding pass between them before he even speaks.

"Then do it."

He sees Fortinbras move a few paces away, take his stance, and draw the arrow back. As he fires the shot, Horatio turns his face to the bright blue sky.

. 

As the life leaves his body, he wonders if there he might be going to some other world. Perhaps, he thinks, there exists one in which he never has to watch Hamlet die.


End file.
